Saturday, October 24, 2009

One Sunday we tended our niece (4) and nephew (1). They were being adorable and H was being highly interactive with them by playing Parcheesi toddler style. Meaning baby throws dice, we all say "Yay", H retrieves dice, and it starts all over. After a endless barrage of questions from the 4 year old, and some general mayhem, I retreat to the kitchen to start making lunch. The kids were only here for a half an hour, and when they left, I walked in to the living room to give H the wide eyed "kill me now" look, and before I opened my mouth to incriminate myself, H plops down on the couch nearly giddy with joy, and says with all the sincerity the earth holds "Oh I just LOVE my niece and nephew. They make me so happy" I smile and pat him on the head, and head back to the kitchen, happy I am married to a such a kind hearted, gentle creature, and even more happy I didn't just reveal he is married to Voldemort.

After all that internal struggle about whether to go back on the pill, I have the scrip filled only to find out the very next day that all the bloodwork I need in order to do IVF next May has to be done no later than six months ahead, and is not valid or useful if taking birth control. Bah!

So much for that. So I guess I will get my re-testing done in January and take my pills after that.

In an what I can only describe as an act of hostility, I just peed on a stick. A pregnancy test to be exact. I feel like I am losing my mind. Despite the fact that I had my period less than two weeks ago, and I currently feel all the crappy symptoms of ovulation, and I might be rocking the swine flu, I just marched up upstairs, grabbed that sucker and peed all over it. And then upon seeing the negative sign appear I felt all imperialistic and vindicated, like I had just won a heated intellectual argument. In my head I was like "See I told you I wasn't pregnant." And then I do the neck and head bob like I have seen sassy black women on the CW do. "MMmm HHmm."

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Reading books about child abuse and healing hurt kids is a hobby of mine. I have read a lot of books on the subject, but I have never read any books specifically relating to sexual abuse. It is such a disturbing topic to me that I just avoided by rationalizing that H and I aren't capable of handling a sexually abused child, so why bother.

I teach teenagers at church and one of our newest young teens is a foster child, and sexual abuse survivor. While respecting her privacy, we were made aware of some of her potential issues which included the terrible, yet unsurprising fact that she does need 24 hour adult supervision, should not be alone with peers or younger children, can have over-exaggerated emotional responses, and talks very openly about sex. I immediately regretted avoiding the topic, and fortunately have access to an awesome free library through our local foster care foundation that ships books directly to your home within 36 hours, so I loaded up immediately.

I'd like to say that I didn't know what to expect the first time I met this girl, but I obviously had preconceived expectations when a cute, sweet, indistinguishable teenage girl showed up to our meeting, and I found myself surprised. Surprised by her sweet, normalness? How sad.

I will admit that the first book I read was so horrific to me, I wrapped myself up in a blanket and said silent prayers to Heavenly Father that I could be able to get through this muck taking only the helpful and good, without having it damage me. I fell asleep focusing on this prayer, because if I stopped, the horrific words I had just read began to haunt me. Just two books into my newest "study" I am finding that my fear of these kids is being replaced by compassion. I just can't shake the knowledge that if these removed, clinicalized abuse accounts can get to me much, just imagine what it does to the people who live through it.

In our foster/adopt licensing classes we watched a movie about one child's experience in foster care. Before we watched we were warned by our class leader that the end of the movie contained real footage of a graphic scene of the child's eventual suicide. She asked that although seeing such things in movies was probably outside of our norms, that we refrain from leaving the room or turning away, because if this boy had to live this life (and death) the least we can do is acknowledge it. I wholeheartedly agreed with her, but didn't realize I was doing my own version of looking away when it came to sexual abuse.

About Me

I am a woman who, despite best intentions, modern medicine, bad advice, and a whole lotta good old fashioned trying, cannot reproduce. I am the genetic mule. These are the stories of my quest for a baby, my denial that I want a baby, and every other thing in between. I have found the best ways to cope with this particular brand of tough stuff is by sharing the sadness and looking for the humor in infertility with fellow mules. Sarcasm, dark humor, occasional bitching, and of course frequent crying all seem to help me. One thing that I have particular trouble with is HOPE. I'll work on it.
But here is something sweet for those of you tough enough to handle some of the H word. I did a google search of "genetic mule" just before I published my first post to make sure no clever person had stolen my name before I got to it, and the only thing that came up was this:
http://www.eyeondna.com/2007/07/31/genetic-impossibility-female-mule-gives-birth-to-foal/
Read it and weep. I did. I guess there is hope even for a mule like me.